


Constellations

by ackermom



Category: Tales of Symphonia
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 17:48:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10859007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ackermom/pseuds/ackermom
Summary: Things are different now: now that he is the only one left. He drew the first blueprints for the Tower, and now he climbs through its wreckage to reach another holy site.





	Constellations

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on tumblr for the prompt "things you said under the stars and in the grass"

He finds himself there more often than he would like to admit.

He wonders if it is a habit. It is the final resting place of the remains of Cruxis, after all; vines have begun to creep up the ruins of the Tower of Salvation that scatter the field. No one thought to remove the chunks of rock in the aftermath of everything. There is a poetry in their inconvenient placements; one must climb through the ruins to reach the site. He flies, of course, as he always has.

He flies over the ruins until one day he finds himself drawn towards the ground, to the grass, to the scramble through the ruins that marks the path of pilgrims. He descends, and when his feet have touched the ground, he breathes as though he has not breathed in years. Things are different now: now that he is the only one left. He clambers over the ruins. He drew the first blueprints for the Tower, and now he climbs through its wreckage to reach another holy site.

The tree is as small as it was yesterday. It is utterly vulnerable, and beneath the moonlight, it shines like a ghost, its leaves dancing in the gentle breeze.

The stars shine brighter now that Derris-Kharlan is gone. He tries to remember if they shone like that when he was a child, but the world was so dark then that it might not have mattered anyways. He can’t remember.

But the world does feel lighter now: relieved of a burden. And a comet is a massive burden to bear on one’s shoulders, especially when one does not know that it is there. He collapses back into the grass, first unwillingly, brought to his knees by stray thoughts and old memories. But the ground looks soft and it beckons to him: fall into me. He does, his cloak flapping down around his body. How silly he’s being. If they could see him now-

He wonders, as he often used to, what stories the people of the worlds tell. He was born in a strange society, and he knew equally of the myths of the elves and the wars of men. The comet was an integral character in so many Elvish bedtime stories. He knew of its foretold arrival when he was just a child. He wonders also, for the first time, if Derris-Kharlan will ever return. Its cosmic patterns are hard to predict, but he suspects now that it’s gone forever, as many things are.

“She remembers.”

He jolts up. He hadn’t heard anyone approach, not a tiptoe in the grass, and when he looks around wildly, he realizes why. The spirit stands before him, her edges glowing against the deep sky of the night, and she shifts her staff from one hand to the other as he squints up at her, his brow furrowed.

“What?” he asks. 

He considers for a moment how strange this situation is, but he can’t start questioning the movements of goddesses now. The spirit tilts her head as she looks at him.

“Martel remembers,” she says. 

He wants to ask, _Martel or Martel_ , just to be a prat, but what would a newborn spirit have to remember? She’s talking about their Martel.

“What does she remember?” he asks.

The spirit just looks up.

Yuan follows her gaze. The stars, of course. He doesn’t know what she means, but if Martel would remember anything, she would remember the stars. She taught herself to navigate, and the constellations reflected in her eyes. He never knew anyone who loved their planet so much, but the stars stole a piece of her heart and she always wanted to see them up close. She was close, so close to realizing that dream; Derris-Kharlan was on the horizon the day she died. And then, well, then everything went to shit. That’s the way he likes to remember it now. He sighs to the sky.

“This is a long shot,” he says, “but if I give you a message, can you relay it to her?” The stars swirl overhead, looming back and forth as he blinks at them. He glances back to the spirit. “Could you-”

He stops. She is gone.


End file.
